


Formalwear

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hotch is a cunning linguist, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rossi needs to start locking his office
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-17 15:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11854743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: “We’ll get dirty,” she’d said in a coy voice like it was a challenge, and Hotch isn’t entirely sure how this is avoiding that.





	Formalwear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FestiveFerret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret/gifts), [greeneyedconstellations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeneyedconstellations/gifts).



> “We’ll get dirty,” she’d said in a coy voice like it was a challenge, and Hotch isn’t entirely sure how this is avoiding that. All he knows is the _don’t fuck up your suit_ she’d whispered in his ear as they’d slipped into the room and locked the door behind them had somehow led to this. Heavy legs on his shoulders, the hardwood floors pressed against his knees, and he’s watching Emily Prentiss get him off without even touching him. Staring him down with eyes like steel and he looks up and catches that gaze with his breath squeezing tight from a throat turned small. His body is a confused rush of hot/cold; there’s a party going on one floor down and if they’re gone too long, Dave is almost certainly going to come looking.

But her hands are quick, fast and hot like he’s a gun she’s readying to fire, slipping through his hair and tugging at the roots before skimming down either side of his face. He’s obedient. He knows what she wants. Her hands are just as warm as he’d expected as he takes her fingers into his mouth, eyes still locked on that gunmetal gaze, and tastes where they’ve been.

When she slips them out from between his lips, they return to that place. Ass against the desk, panties skewed to the side, navy-blue dress hiked up in an ocean fold of things he can’t touch, he shifts his gaze and stares as she flicks her thumb with a business-like focus over her clit. Watches as she fucks her hand slow and careful so she doesn’t make a mess of her dress, her free hand dropping down to curl around the tie he wishes he wasn’t wearing. Suit too heavy for this, chest too enclosed, he hears her breath quicken and sees her eyes flicker and wants to be naked against her, within her. Not on his knees in front of her with his nose lined prettily in front of her cunt.

“Can’t make a mess if we’re not wearing anything,” he comments dryly, hazily bringing his hand down to wrap around the tented bump of his cock in his pants. But it’s not about their clothes. She’s playing him like a fiddle and he’s getting off on every moment, already tensed and throbbing at the very idea of watching her come while not being allowed to touch.

“You really want to get naked in Rossi’s house?” she retorts. If he was higher, he’d smell wine on her breath and see it in her slightly crooked smile. He’s certainly feeling it, in his blood and his brain and his gut, but some of that is also because he’s thinking of surging upright and pressing in until he can feel how wet she is just from rubbing against her.

“Yes,” he says honestly in a voice like breathing. Against his hand, his cock twitches through his pants. Between her legs, he watches three fingers dip, vanish, return slick and easy. If he’s quiet, he can hear how it sounds through the thump of blood in his ears. Her hand speeds up, taking on a rhythm that curls her bare toes against the desk. He shuffles forward, tilts closer, smells her and him and everything they shouldn’t be doing right now. “Can I touch you?”

“No,” she says, but her hips cant forward.

“Just a little,” is his next breath, watching as she slides her hand faster faster faster until it’s not a question of if she’ll come but when. “Just a taste.”

She huffs, her chest rising and falling along. A bead of sweat pools above him on her collarbone; her legs tighten and clamp around his shoulders until that almost answers the question for him. Her perfume is fruity, her muscles are quivering, and the hand on his tie pulls him forward between her thighs as the other darts away and threads its way damply through his hair.

Just a taste and she’s burning in his mouth, hot and wet and salty sharp as he dips his tongue along the sodden line of her panties and into the space her hand left for him, groaning a little into her as she pulls at his hair. It pulls up, rising him higher onto his knees as her toes bite into his back and he licks her obediently as far as he can go. Dipping in and along until he can’t breathe without choking. He’s not tasting anymore but letting her jolt against his mouth with his head captive by his hair and tie until she’s changing her pace to match his rapid-choking breathing and she can’t see that he’s fumbling for his cock through his pants.

_Ah,_ he gasps into her, and she lets him out for air with a ragged _Aaron_ and a scrape of nails against his scalp. Dark eyes turned darker and she’s bitten her lip pink as she stares down at him openly struggling to undo his fly. It takes a heartbeat longer than he wants, his mouth and chin a mess and the front of his suit and shirt in real danger of getting marked by the fallout, but then he doesn’t care anymore because he’s hard and heavy in his hand and already slick with the thought of her.

There’s not much for his mouth to do when he returns to her, timing his tongue with the stroke of his wrist, and neither of them know who’ll outlast the other. He’s keyed up, turned on, and she’s trembling and tight and grabbing at any part of him that she can with her sharp nails like she’s looking for his trigger.

She finds it. She comes first, on his mouth with a cry and a savage buck of her hips, fingers tight in his hair. He wants to choke on it and does, the wet rush that he tastes and swallows as she buckles, but she’s always recovered fast and now is nothing new as she drags him up using his suit lapel and pulls him, fully dressed except for his cock in his hand and his messy face, up to kiss her.

“Here, here,” she pants, eyes hot and face pink, wriggling against him as she slips her panties down her legs and manages to hook them up into her hand. It’s a sly, sinuous move, and he hisses and covers the head of his cock with his hand as it coats his fingers in a slick rush of _almost_. “No, _fuck_ , don’t come, not yet, _here_.”

Panties bunched in her hand, she wraps her cock with them and pulls him forward hard. The breath that caught in his throat before catches again and he lets his hand drop and instead lifts higher, rocks _hard_ against her, and fucks her through her sodden panties. Pumping as though he can pretend he’s actually fucking her, as though there isn’t the material between them, as she wiggles and mewls and makes a noise like she’s pretending too.

He comes in a ferocious rush that makes him shake; arms wrapped around her with his face tilted away from hers so he doesn’t mess up her makeup any more than it already it and with enough energy to make him shake. She holds him until he’s done, heartbeat to heartbeat, and he really hopes her underwear containment plan was thought out rather than a desperate need to feel him fuck her.

“I think we made a mess,” he says when his heartbeat has returned to something even slightly approaching normal, his knees aching and jaw clicking as he talks. She doesn’t answer, just smiles and burrows her head against his shoulder, holding him like she’s in love. He considers that if he’s her weapon, he’s glad to be so.


End file.
